


Missing the Boat

by stitchy



Series: Missing the Boat [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Christmas, Eddie Lives but we don't need to relitigate it, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Richie Tozier, Pining, Post-Canon, Romance, Stranded, Toilet humor and Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 18:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: About a year after Derry, the Losers plan a cruise to Bev and Ben's destination wedding. Cross country travel being the bitch it is, Richie and Eddie miss the boat and get stranded until they can catch a flight out to Hawaii. It's a blast from the past Good Time TM, but Eddie wants to know- why has Richie been so distant?





	Missing the Boat

**Author's Note:**

> I had such a great time writing my first reddie fic, I had to double dip.
> 
> To the PNW crowd- It's been awhile since I've been out your way; forgive my foggy memory.
> 
> To everyone else- Yeah, Unicorn & Narwhal is real and it RULES

When they touch down in Tacoma, two things happen. Everyone in business class gets out of their seat to look for their carry on, and Richie’s phone erupts with approximately a million text alerts. Richie, whose eyes have been glued to the clock since hitting the Rockies, does not rush to check either. He already knows he missed the boat.

“This is why they offer travel insurance, huh?” he says, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. Sure, it was Bev and Ben’s money that he happened to be wasting, but since hitting forty these sorts of adult thoughts occurred to him more and more often.

The last few messages in the Losers group chat are all Bev, worrying after him.

**BM** _ They’re pulling out in twenty minutes, I hope you’re in a cab. _

**BM** _ Shit. I’m so sorry. _

**BM** _ This sucks. _

**BM** _ We’re gonna be out of cell range soon. You can email us. _

By the time stamp, he knows there’s no way they’ll get his text unless they pay for a hotspot or whatever you do on a cruise, but he replies anyway.

**RT** _ Just touched down. It’s not your fault, please enjoy yourselves. I’ll figure out what’s up and let you know. _

He can get a flight out to Hawaii anytime in the next five days and still meet them for the actual wedding. Sure, he was looking forward to kicking it on the deck with a santa hat and some very overpriced, very weak cocktails, but he can get drunk just about anywhere in the meanwhile. If he has to go full Catherine O’Hara in _ Home Alone _ to get tickets, he will.

-

Baggage claim is a zoo. It’s three days to Christmas, so everyone is extra stressed as they jockey their way to the conveyor belt and wrangle off the awkwardly shaped gift boxes they couldn’t be bothered to just mail ahead. Richie watches the same set of golf clubs with Tweety Bird covers go by at least five times before he realizes he hasn’t seen his luggage. Of fucking course.

The guy at the counter confirms his fears and tells Richie that his stuff is still somewhere between Orlando and Chicago. Why not throw another headache onto the pile, right? Since he can’t get his luggage delivered to a hotel here or in Hawaii without doing some booking, he slides his ass down the freezing cold cinderblock wall and whips out his phone again.

**EK** _ Are you still at Tacoma? Where are you? _

Richie shakes his head. Did he not read the spam of texts in the group chat closely enough? He flips back to the Losers and scrolls up further than he had before and sure enough, he isn’t the only one who hit shitty weather during his layover.

Richie goes back to the chat log that’s just him and Eddie. It's the first one-on-one message he’s had from him in months. Whenever he talks to Eddie since reconnecting, he always does it in the group chat out of a sense of self preservation. If Eddie wishes him Happy Birthday privately, he responds to the Losers at large; _ Thanks for the Birthday love, guys_! It was fine when they all saw each other in person, sorta- but texting was too dangerous. Too faithful a record of what was said, in a space where he couldn’t glaze it all over with a slap on the back and a gag. It was really just a more technological version of the same plausible deniability he’d operated on when they were kids. It’s not a Date date if the others are there and Bill is ordering around the troops.

_ Carousel C_, he texts back.

Usually he resolutely Does Not Look at their chat log, but he doesn’t have the heart to delete it either. Eddies last message before today is still hanging there on the screen, scaring him more than any of the many very scary things he’s seen in his prolifically fucked life.

**EK** _ I was thinking about you_.

And what could Richie have said to that?_ I was thinking about you too. I think about you all the time, even when I’m not thinking about you. Is that okay? _ He drafted a few casual replies at the time, but ultimately took it to the group chat, where he could camouflage with the crowd. _ What do you guys think? _and a link to a quiz determining which Little Debbie snack matches your personality.

Richie’s misery is underscored by the squeak of shoes on the linoleum in front of him. Without warning, one kicks him lightly in the shin.

“Hey loser.”

When Richie looks up, he can’t help but grin from ear to ear. He flattens his hands against the wall behind him and scuttles and pushes his way up to his feet again. “Eddie!” he cries out, throwing an arm around his neck and giving him a noogie.

“Jesusfuck, your hands are cold!” Eddie only puts up a brief struggle before squeezing Richie in a hug. It’s so warm and good he doesn’t let go until Eddie backs off.

“Gimme a sweater or something, will ya?” Richie rubs his bare arms. “I’m fuckin’ freezing. I came from a show in Florida and my luggage is lost and the only clothes I have in my carry on are a sock I found on the way outta my last hotel and a _ Little Mermaid _ shirt I bought for Bev.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide and he immediately bends to open his bag, as urgently as though Richie was moments from death by hypothermia. “You’re giving Bev a t-shirt for a wedding gift?” he asks, fiddling with the zipper.

“No, dipshit! I got them a five year permit for the marina in LA when they sail down. The t-shirt is a Christmas gift.”

Eddie pulls out a red sweatshirt and hands it to Richie with a bright glint in his eye. “What’d you get _ me_?”

Richie pulls on the sweatshirt and rolls the stupidly short sleeves so he can properly shake his finger at Eddie. “Naughty, naughty. That’s between me and Santa Claus.”

“Don’t stretch out my hoodie, asshole.”

“It’s not my fault you’re such a tiny little munchkin,” says Richie, threatening to pinch Eddie’s cheeks.

Eddie bats him away and sighs. “I feel like such a fucking moron.” He dutifully zips back up his luggage and picks up Richie’s carry on to balance it on top. “Missed the cruise _ and _ now I’m realizing I didn’t bring any Christmas presents.”

So not true.

“_You’re _ my present this year,” Richie says, pitching his voice an octave higher and tapping Eddie on the chest like he’s sticking a bow on him.

Eddie scrunches his eyebrows. “Is that the old incesty Folger’s commercial?”

“Yeah, what the fuck was _ up _ with that?”

-

They settle who will book what without any further pinching or punching. Richie gets them a flight out to Hawaii on Christmas Day while waving his hand and repeatedly invoking Frequent Flyer Miles when Eddie tries and fails to venmo him the difference. Not to be out done, Eddie finds a fairly ritzy hotel downtown where they can enjoy their accidental visit to Seattle. Richie stops holding his breath when he hears it has two rooms available. 

By the time they get a cab and check in the sun has been down for hours. Richie doesn’t turn on the lights, he just drops his bag full of gag gifts and heads straight into the bathroom to wash his face. He needs to _ think_.

He has a minor meltdown in the bathtub. The full reality of spending Christmas, not with all the Losers as planned, but with _ just Eddie _ finally had dawned on him during the cab ride, crammed together between their bags and the rain slicked windows of the backseat. The radio played one after another of those jinglebelled romantic songs as he realized what he was in for. The Richie and Eddie Christmas Special. An ill advised ratings grab that tanks the franchise. He was going to get mistletoed and Mannheim Steamrollered to death. They would have no one to run interference when they got out of hand goading each other, no alien monster threats to distract and diffuse their tension. It was going to be all paling around and laughing like they always had, plus drinking too much, touching too much, and getting sentimental. He would see Eddie on Christmas morning and his stupid little heart would be tricked into thinking it’s lifelong wish has come true. He was going to be heartbroken.

_ Unless_. Unless he took this mini bro-cation and used it as an opportunity to take a temperature on their relationship. He could lay it all out. If Eddie wasn’t interested, he already had a protocol in place for still being friends with the Losers as a whole. He could pop an Ambien on the flight out, Bev and Ben would have a lovely wedding, and Richie would get blind drunk in a hammock on some pink sanded beach. 

Richie pulls up the hood and hugs himself into the cocoon of his borrowed sweatshirt and controls his breathing by imagining he’s already swinging between two coconut trees. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Actually, he has an idea.

“Richie? You ready?” Eddie knocks on the door, right on cue.

Limbs flailing, Richie claws his way out of the tub. “I’m IN THE BATH!” he calls, even as he makes his way to the door. 

“I can come back!”

Richie flings the door open and Eddie stands there with the most quizzical look, eyes darting up and down at his being fully dressed.

“Uh, you wanna get dinner?”

“Eh,” Richie raises a shoulder in a half shrug and lets Eddie enter. “My stomach’s still not sure what timezone I’m in.”

“Me too,” Eddie grins at him in the dark, as Richie still hasn’t turned the lights on. He leans back against the wall just inside the door. “What about a movie first?”

“That works.”

Eddie takes out his phone and starts googling, the choosy pucker of his lips spotlighted by the glowing light of the screen.

_ Ugh. Adorable_. 

To distract himself from thoughts of pressing Eddie more thoroughly up against the wall, Richie pretends to look at google too, but does a quick search of Prime instead. He just barely remembers to change the delivery address to the hotel when Eddie clicks his tongue.

“There’s a single screen place a few blocks away,” he says. “They’re running _The_ _Shape of Water_ in half an hour. Trailers for that looked pretty good. Unless that’s too... sewer monstery.” He raises a cautious eyebrow at Richie.

“It’s a romance though, right?” The evening’s prospects were already better than he dared hope. “I can handle romantic monsters. I love _ Monsters, Inc. _”

That makes Eddie laugh. “Is... is that a romance?”

“Those guys _ live together_, Eddie. _ With their adopted child_.”

Eddie’s mouth does a funny little squiggle. “I’m buying tickets,” he says, tapping his thumb on the phone definitively.

Richie opens the door again and follows Eddie out. “It’s rated R, shortstuff. We'll have to sneak you in.”

“You got a trenchcoat?”

-

They hit up the concessions stand where Eddie claims he doesn't want a slurpee, but Richie knows him too well to fall for it. He gets the largest size in coke flavor, Eddie’s preferred poison, and isn’t at all surprised when Eddie comes along a moment later rattling two boxes of candy and an extra straw.

The crowd is pretty light for a Friday night, which probably has something to do with the smell. It’s one of those old fashioned converted theaters, with balcony and orchestra seating and the musty ghost of cigarettes past stuck in every bit of carved filigree. Undoubtedly there were multiplexes near by where the good people of Seattle see their blockbusters, while this dinky little joint skews more arthouse. Without needing to confer, the two beeline for the stairs and find themselves in much the same spot they would have picked at the Aladdin when they were kids, tossing popcorn onto the audience below. Richie makes sure to sit first and put one arm out on the back of the seat beside him, and delights when Eddie elects to sit in that seat, even though he has to pass Richie in the narrow space between the row and rail to get to it.

He watches Eddie as much as he watches the movie, if not more. He takes in the pink tinge of the healed scar on his cheek, his mouth moving in an unuttered swear, and the clench of his hands when something unjust happens. The absence of a ring.

Fairy tales and dreamy strings wash over Richie, sitting there in the watery dark. He catches himself tearing up at least twice, and doesn’t particularly try to fight it, especially when his non-candy arm is on dedicated Eddie Duty. His perseverance pays off when Eddie sighs and snuggles down into his seat during a soaring music cue. His head tilts back into Richie’s shoulder. If Richie wanted to, he could lean in and lay his cheek against his head. And of course he _ wants _to. 

If Eliza can put the moves on a fish man...

“Get it, girl!” Richie whistles at the screen.

The scant number of fellow theatergoers rumble indignantly, but Eddie chuckles, so fuck ‘em.

Even when his neck starts to crick, Richie keeps as close as he can until the credits roll to a final reprise of_ You'll Never Know (If You Don’t Know Now). _It’s all over too soon.

Richie takes one last deep breath of Eddie’s hair. “Should we stay through the end to see if Spider-Man is in the next one?” he asks.

Eddie blinks as though a spell has just been broken. He stretches the inactivity from his arms and legs. “That was great, actually.”

Richie stands and does the same. “I’m suddenly craving eggs. Let’s find a diner.”

“I’m still not hungry,” Eddie sighs. “I’m gonna be thinking about that fucker’s disgusting hands for a week.”

Richie shudders in agreement, but he can’t possibly pass up a chance to dig at Eddie. It’s their schtick, after all, and he’s decided these next few days should be their proof of concept. “You’re not hungry because you _ ate all my M&Ms_,” he points out. “Now, do you want to go to the first Denny’s we passed on the way over, or the second?”

-

They’re sipping shitty de-caf and waiting on their food when Eddie asks a startling question.

“Richie, were you- I don’t know... Mad at me?”

Of all of Richie’s well practiced impressions to fall back on, he really wishes the one he settles on wasn’t a dumbstruck tomato. His face burns.

A mutilated sugar sachet twists in Eddie’s hands. “I just thought... It seemed like you were keeping your distance?”

“No!” Richie blurts. “I was never mad at you. Ever.”

Any anger he might be feeling is all directed squarely at himself, that’s for sure. Of course Eddie noticed he’d been getting the brush off. They’re _ supposed _to be friends. Avoidance is not how you treat your friends.

Richie grits his teeth and stares at the ripped Rudolph decoration that hangs in the window behind Eddie, under a half burnt out string of lights. “I dunno. It was a me thing. I was going through sort of a rough time after realizing I’d forgotten the first eighteen years of my life, then destroying a spider demon and _ axing a man in the head_.” It all comes out of his mouth in a rush, getting louder on the tail end than he intended.

Eddie whips his head around to check that the other patrons are minding their own business. “You can’t! Shout that in a Denny’s!” he hisses.

Richie takes refuge behind his coffee cup, muttering. “I doubt that’s the craziest thing anyone’s ever shouted in a Denny’s.”

“Listen.” Eddie takes a breath and looks Richie in the eye, pleadingly. “We all were fucked up about it, dude. I was in the hospital for a month-"

“-I’m sorry I had to leave before you woke up.” If anyone should be mad, it’s Eddie, Richie thinks. It killed him to leave before he could talk to Eddie, but at the time it didn’t look like waking up was in the cards.

“That’s not. That’s not what I-” Eddie slides a hand out on the table. “It’s okay Richie. I just missed you, is all.” His hand flips, palm up.

Richie pauses. “Me too.”

He’s just about to reach out and take Eddie’s hand when their waitress arrives with two heaping plates. He’d spent too much of his twenties waiting tables to ever stiff someone but if anyone ever deserved a receipt with only a frowny face draw on the gratuity line, Richie is sure it’s her.

“Can I get you guys anything else?”

Eddie fumbles with his fork. “We’re great, thanks.”

They may as well get the rest of the unpleasantness out of the way. It will determine how much Richie stuffs his face, if nothing else. He lets Eddie get three whole bites into his meal before he has to ask. “So, how’s Myra?”

He might (technically!) be an axe murderer but he’s not so sure he has it in him to be a homewrecker. Sure, he might have noticed Eddie wasn’t wearing a ring, but-

“I wouldn’t know,” Eddie says simply. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year. After all the business with that clown-” Eddie trails off into his bacon.

It’s possible someone in this Denny’s just shot Richie with a tranq dart, because a truly instant wave of relief floods through him. These are the best eggs Richie has ever eaten. Has any other toast been burnt and buttered to such perfection?

“Yeah, I keep hearing about post-election divorces,” he says, giddy. “_How could you vote for that clown!?” _

“Oh, so you’re branching out into political humor now?” Eddie snarks.

“I think I was _ born _to riff on the Pee Pee Tape. It’s my purpose in life.”

Eddie beams back at him. “I always wondered what the point of you was!”

Richie kicks him under the table. They’re still playing footsie when the worst waitress in the world comes back to ask about dessert.

-

Being around Eddie has a way of recalibrating Richie to factory settings. He’s calmed down since their initial reunion, to the result that he lays in bed rather than the bathtub. It’s been an informative evening, he thinks, replaying it in his mind. Eddie leaning into him. Eddie being single. Eddie wishing they’d had more contact lately.

_ He missed me_.

It’s grade A, schoolgirl nonsense, but Richie took Eddie’s sweatshirt into bed. He pillows his face in it and wonders what else he might be able to kidnap from Eddie while his luggage is still missing, and how good it might smell. Like summer and having nothing to do but be the RichieandEddie double act all over town until school started again. All these years later, Eddie still uses the same detergent as his mother, Richie’s never been sure of the brand, but sometimes when he’s walking around a residential area he’ll get a whiff off it steaming out of someone’s basement and go absolutely weak in the knees. For the longest time he couldn’t remember why that was... He’d probably go into heart failure if he ever found himself in Eddie’s laundry room.

Oh great, now he’s fantasizing about folding the guys fucking sheets. Someone please come put him out of his domestic, delusional misery.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Eddie.

**EK** _ You up? _

**RT** _ Yeah ;) _

What the fuck is he doing bringing winky faces into this? This is exactly why he’s avoided texting Eddie up to now. Fuck.

**EK** _ I was just wondering _

**...**

Something about the ‘currently typing’ dot dot dots feels like a portal of limitless potential. Schrodinger’s Ellipses. Until Eddie finishes typing, he could be wondering anything. Does Richie still like Meat Loaf? _ Yeah, hell yeah_. Does he want to come over for a nightcap? _ Against his better judgement. _ What will the weather be like in Maui? _ Gorgeous_. Is there an oddly specific German word for running though imaginary scenarios in your head like this? _ Kopfkino_.

Richie’s thumbs run away from him.

**RT ** _ One sock and a pink t-shirt that says “Redheads Rule”. _

**RT ** _ You? _

There’s no putting the genie back in the bottle, apparently.

**EK** _ ...if you wanted to hit the treadmills in the morning. _

**EK** _ Wait what? _

**RT ** _ Jesus, Eds. I know you haven’t been single since the Bush admin, but when most people text ‘you up?’ after 11pm ‘what’re you wearing?’ is the next question. _

**EK** _ Good to know. _

**EK** _ If you want to go for a run or whatever I have extra shorts _

**RT ** _ Ok. As long as we can play grab ass in the shower after. _

**EK** _ Good night Richie. _

**RT ** _ I hope your shorts don’t clash with my shirt. _

-  


The hotel gym is nothing special, but then neither are Richie or Eddie’s athletic resumés. For the most part, Eddie exercises to keep up with his physical therapy. His back isn’t what it used to be since Derry, but getting limber first thing in the morning helps him avoid limping by the end of the day. On the other end of the spectrum of responsibility, Richie just runs so he can keep on eating like shit. But it’s nice to be able to offer moral support. He gets shamed into doing some partner stretches, too, which isn’t so bad when it’s with Eddie rather than some sweaty stranger in a cut rate LA acting class.

After a long and lazy breakfast that stretches into being a brunch, they find their way to a weird little sci-fi book fair in Capitol Hill. It’s maybe fifty/fifty bookdealers to vendors of other collectible knick knacks, in truth, but it’s absorbing. They chat to the people there, and ogle the merchandise and the posters of local business sponsors. There’s a particularly flamboyant one for Unicorn & Narwhal, a joint bar/arcade boasting menu items such as fried rainbow cheese on a stick, jackalope burgers, and a ‘Unicorn Jizz’ cocktail, that Richie and Eddie immediately agree they must visit. They lose most of the day at the fair, at first scouring for old comic books, then becoming obsessed with an array of steampunk hats and goggles, then popping in and out of a casual screening of old episodes of The Twilight Zone. Richie harasses Eddie with his best Rod Serling while they pick out a few $1 paperbacks for the plane.

“The place is here, the time is six o’clock on Christmas Eve Eve, and the paperbacks that we’re about to peruse could be our own,” says Richie, looming over Eddie’s shoulder as he shops.

Eddie looks dead ahead at the person working the table stacked with yellowing magazines. “I don’t know him.”

“Witness, if you will, Eddie Kaspbrak. A man whose primal desire to find an anthology he hasn’t read yet... has driven him to despair.”

“Do you have _ The Belonging Kind _ around here, somewhere?” Eddie asks, but he only gets a shrug in answer.

Richie puts out his imaginary Serling cigarette on a copy of _ Wired _ and starts flipping through a crate marked ‘Anthologies’ until he runs into some Gibson. He passes it to Eddie who looks at him like he just handed him a hunk of gold.

“How did you do that?”

“With my _ eyes_, dingus.” Richie pulls a face and shoves his glasses up his nose. “I’m gonna go find the can before they shut this place down.”

A clever look comes over Eddie. “Yeah. Yeah, go fuck off for a minute. Actually- how about we meet up at the bar?”

Richie winks, catching his drift. “Smell ya later.”

Outside, Pike Street stretches out ahead of him in all its seasonal glory. It should be nauseating, all trussed up in glittering lights and garlands with red bows, but he’s feeling tender. He knows Eddie is back there, trying to sneakily buy him a gift. It’s cute. It makes him want to shove anonymous notes like _ Do you have a crush on anyone in our school? YES/NO Circle one _under Eddie’s door and run away giggling.

He arrives at the bar with a spring in his step. Inside it's exactly as bonkers as he and Eddie hoped, splashed with a rainbow of circus colors and neon lights, punctuated by taxidermy heads, tattoo flash, and gilded wallpaper. A fancy wrought iron staircase leads down into the basement where several rows of pinball and skeeball machines beep and blip enticingly. It’s funky and it’s gaudy, it’s... actually the gayest space Richie has ever been in? There are flyers for Drag Brunch and Gaymer Night, and plenty of visibly queer people just enjoying their evening out. He heads over to the bar to order a drink that he hopes will distract him from the suspicion that he’s too much of a closet-case to fit in here.

A Dreamsicle shot later, Eddie turns up with a plastic bag that pokes and strains in ways that a few paperbacks simply wouldn’t. His not-so-secret mission accomplished, he sidles up to the kitchy little roundtop where Richie has set up camp. 

Richie waggles his eyebrows. “You run into a dude in a red suit on your way here?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Eddie holds the bag behind his back and looks away innocently. His effort to keep from smiling is valiant.

Richie hops up from his seat and feints left, then catches Eddie around the middle as he ducks right. “Secrets, please!”

Eddie squeaks. _ Actually _ squeaks. “You’re gonna make me break it, shithead!”

“So it’s breakable. _ Interesting_,” Richie purrs. He and Eddie twist in something not unlike a dance, with his arms locked tight so they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. “I bet it's sparkly.”

“What’s sparkly?” Eddie grins.

“_You_, Eddie.”

In a classic gambit, Eddie makes himself deadweight and buckles until Richie can either let him go, or risk getting dragged down with him. Conditioned from childhood, Richie’s first instinct is always to let go because-

“Remember the time I pantsed you?” says Eddie, sinking to his knees in hysterics.

Richie helps Eddie up. “There are easier ways to see my dick.”

As Eddie arranges his bag safely under the table, a woman at the neighboring booth with a perfectly pink undercut catches Richie’s eye and giggles behind her hand. “You guys are super cute together!”

Richie flashes crossed fingers to her. She does the same back, mouthing _ Good luck! _

“Get a load of this place, huh?” Eddie waves at the decor.

“You haven’t even seen the claw machine yet.”

Those are magic words to Eddie, who has a special way with the claw. He narrows his eyes. “I’ll show it who the fuckin’ boss is.”

“Win me something pretty, baby,” says Richie, patting Eddie’s cheek. “I’ll go get us liquored up.”

-

If there’s a perfect amount of bubblegum vodka to imbibe while still being able to navigate a rideshare app at the end of the night, Richie and Eddie double it. Their lyft driver keeps turning up the radio to drown them out as they carry on squabbling over who _ really _ made the highscore on Medieval Madness, since each controlled a flipper.

“I pulled the plunger on the first ball!” Eddie keeps saying. “The first ball sets the tone for the whole game!”

“Oh, suck _ my _ ball.”

“Only the one?”

“I can afford to have one ball since I got two bonus rounds.” Richie twists in his seat and kicks his legs up into Eddie’s lap.

“Do I look like a fucking footstool?” asks Eddie. But instead of shoving off Richie’s feet, he lays his hand gently on his leg and runs his fingers along the length of his shin the rest of the drive.

A drunken, bastardized rendition of The Twelve Days Of Christmas takes them from their lyft to their hotel, and into the elevator. Where they completely forget to press the button and are summoned to four different floors above their own before they realize they’ve gone astray. The second time they miss their floor Eddie bubbles over in gasping laughter that Richie has always adored and often instigated, even if he usually got told off for giving Eddie an asthma attack.

_ Ding! _

“Ok, but- this time?” Eddie clutches his bag warily and sways on the spot.

Richie waves his hands in a grovel when the doors open on Floor 7 once again. “This is our floor?”

Eddie furrows his brow. “Is that a question or a statement?”

Richie loops an arm around Eddie and marches him out. “This,” he hiccups, “_Is _our floor.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, yielding to Richie’s steering. “Yeah, I have a good feeling about this.”

The door to Richie’s room comes up first, so Richie parks Eddie against the wall while he digs in his pockets for the key card. “Just a minute...” 

Eddie leans closer. “Can I come in?” he asks, his voice low.

On his second try, Richie manages to swipe correctly and pushes the door open. Just inside, he can see his luggage has finally been delivered, along with the gift order he had overnighted, it’s contents clearly labeled.

“Shit,” Richie turns and blocks the door. “Not right now?”

Eddie sags. “You sure?”

Richie hates to see Eddie disappointed and god knows he would love to keep the good time rolling, but he has things to do. “There’s a surprise,” Richie blurts out. He’s a little bit too far gone to obfuscate well and he knows it. “It’s not ready yet.”

“A surprise for me?”

Richie gives him a look like, _ Do you see anyone else here? _“No peeking! You’ll see tomorrow.”

Buoyed from his disappointment, Eddie raises a finger to his lips. “Shh!”

“Night Eddie.” Richie backs through the door with an apologetic smile.

Before he climbs into bed, he uses his keys to bust open the tape on Eddie’s gift. Though it's portable, there’s some assembly required, and once it’s been put together it takes up every spare inch in the room. After an hour of that, Richie ambles off to take a shower and finally get a fresh change of clothes.

When he comes back for one last glance at his phone before bed, there’s a message from Eddie waiting for him.

**EK** _ Now I have a machine gun HO HO HO _

**RT ** _ Die Hard? _

Richie grabs the remote, too, and gets cozy.

**RT ** _ Channel pls _

**EK** _ 46 _

When Richie finds John McClane, he’s crawling through an airduct on some week long Christmas movie marathon. He sets the volume low enough that he won’t mind if it never gets shut off; he likes the idea of falling asleep with Eddie to the same movie.

**RT ** _ Wut u wanna do 2morro _

**EK** _ Get a decoder ring. So I can read your texts. _

**RT **>:D

Richie’s phone rings with an actual phone call, which of course is Eddie.

“I dunno what ‘greater than, colon, D’ is.”

“Mmm, really? Or do you just miss the sound of my voice.”

Eddie pauses. “Shuttup.”

“_You _ called _ me_!” Richie protests.

“Beep beep.”

Richie grumbles and paws around the bed to find Eddie’s sweatshirt again so he can strangle it while Eddie answers his question.

“Uh... wanna go for a run. _Hungover," _he groans. "Get breakfast. Which should make me less hungover.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to get un-hungover first?”

“Nahh,” says Eddie. “I won’t run at all then. And then you’d have to carry my sorry ass home at night.”

Not that Richie would mind sweeping him off his feet, but- “Isn’t that what I _ just _did?”  
  
Eddie ignores his logic. Fictional gunshots strobe the hotel room in light. For a bit, they get caught up in the majesty of peak Alan Rickman.

“We should do more of this tomorrow," says Eddie.

“Fighting on the phone?”

“Stop being so fuckin’ dumb! We should veg and watch Christmas tv.”

That would happen to go hand in hand nicely with Richie’s surprise. “Okay. We’ll pig out on Charlie Brown and open presents.”

“Not until after Mass,” Eddie laughs, but Richie could swear he hears the voice of Sonia Kaspbrak for a moment. It throws him for a loop.

“You wanna go to church?” He used to tag along to temple with Stan, how different can it be?

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise. “Not really. But if you’re gonna do presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day, I feel like you have to at least wait until sundown.”

Richie sighs in exasperation. He can’t exactly throw a sheet over Eddie’s gift all day and still hang out in the room. They could always kick it in Eddie’s room, but his threshold for platonic laying around in bed would be worn out by lunch. That forces him to suggest an outing.

“Let’s go to that Winterfest thing.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees. “Run. Eat. Tourist shit. Room service and revelry.”

They’re both quiet for a long time after that, tired and sucked back into the movie. Eddie’s volume is set too low for Richie to get a stereo effect, but Eddie puffs a laugh now and then so he can tell they’re both still watching. He starts to drift off but when the FBI show up, the sirens rouse them both and Eddie speaks again.

“You let that guy buy you a drink,” he says quietly, not as though he’s been thinking about it the whole time or anything, but if the thought just came to him, maybe it’s not the first time.

“Free drink.” Richie’s so sleepy. He has not given a second thought to the dude who bought him a shot when he went to go get him and Eddie a second round, like, at all.

“He liked you. _ Like _liked.”

“Fans buy me drinks, sometimes,” Richie yawns. “I’m going t’sleep.”

“I buy-” Eddie yawns too. “Bye Richie.”

“Mmm. Bye bye.”

-

  
Some Jimmy Stewart movie that isn’t _ It’s a Wonderful Life _ is playing when Richie wakes up and gets dressed. There are worse ways to medicate a headache, he supposes.

A woman with immaculate hair is trying to let Jimmy down gently_. “Mr. Kralik, it's true we're in the same room... but we're not on the same planet,” _ she says. 

_ “Miss Novak, although I'm the victim of your remark, I can't help but admire the exquisite way you have of expressing yourself,” _ responds Jimmy in his shucksy way. _ “You certainly know how to put a man in his planet.” _

Since he imagines that housekeeping would not appreciate the new piece of furniture that manifested overnight, Richie flips the Do Not Disturb sign on his way to go knock on Eddie’s door. He is greeted by the sight of Eddie looking all soft and rumpled in his work out gear, brushing his teeth.

“Well good morning, Short Shorts,” says Richie, really relishing both the shorts and some bouncy Stewart-esque vowels. “Going my way?”

“How are you like thishh right now,” Eddie groans, still brushing. “I feel like a narwhalshh blowhole.”

They make an attempt in the gym. They savor the hell outta breakfast. They ride the monorail to Seattle Center. There, they take pictures of each other being inappropriate with ice sculptures and chocolates in the shape of the Space Needle. They gawk at the model train village and the trees and the lights and absolutely do not ice skate.

“Pretty please?” Richie folds his hands pleadingly. He hopes that one of the skaters behind him is doing a spin or kick ass jump to really sell it, but knows in all likelihood that someone is faceplanting.

Eddie shoves his hands back down, deadly serious. “How many more times do you want me to break my fucking arm, Rich?”

“You really are the defining example of the Oregon Trail Generation, you know that?” Richie rolls his eyes. “Rest two days and the oxen will be fine. Look, they’ve got those little grandma walker things, if you’re that worried you’re gonna eat shit.”

Eddie doesn’t even consider it. “Are _ you _ gonna do everything for me while I’m in a cast?”

Richie shrugs. “Depends on if it’s your jerk off arm.”

“I don’t get to choose which one to break!” Eddie grabs Richie’s shoulders and starts steering him away from the rink.

“I can tell you which one would sweeten the pot!”

“Oh my god, Richie.”

They hang around the Center a little longer, until it starts to get dark around four o’clock and the light decorations come on. Then they figure, why not? They’re already here, may as well go up the tower for that sunset view.

The crowd at the top of the Space Needle is Hallmark-y to say the least. He wonders what they must look like from the outside, two touchy-feely dudes posing for pictures together, Richie in an obnoxious floral shirt and blazer and Eddie with his preppy little sweater. Do they look like they belong together? Like they already are? Two other couples that he spots appear to be on the verge of engagement, so at least Richie isn’t the only guy up here sweating bullets.

If he’s really going to make their upcoming gift swap his moment of truth, he’s running down the clock now. They’ll probably head back to the hotel as soon as they’re done here. This could be the last lovely memory he has with Eddie before he absolutely ruins their friendship forever. Eddie smiles up at him between goofy selfies and investigating infographics, unsuspecting of how Richie is cataloguing each smirky look he gives him. Before they call it a night, Richie uses his superior height and breadth to plow their way to a spot in the glass where they can see both water and city, trimmed in golden light. He positions Eddie in front of him and hooks his chin over his shoulder as they look out. Eddie takes a picture of that pose too, but this time he doesn’t cross his eyes or stick out his tongue.

“You gotta send me some of these,” Richie says. “Especially the one where you’re stuck to Frosty’s ass.”

In the ride back to the hotel, Eddie texts him everything on his camera roll from the day and makes Richie do the same. He’s so entirely swarmed with butterflies, he can't truly enjoy the way Eddie drums his hands along to_ Little Saint Nick_, then grins at him and declares the Muppets do it better.

They agree to start off their festivities in Eddie’s room, so Richie goes back to his own to collect his carry on bag full of gifts and hastily tidy up, since he opted out on the maid. He is definitely not going to woo Eddie with his dirty socks balled up on the floor.

The latch is thrown on Eddie’s door so Richie can come right in, and the tv’s already turned on to some classic or other. Eddie sits on the made bed, cross legged with the bag from the book fair folded neatly around something wide and flat in his lap.

“C’mon!” Eddie says, waving him over. “No one in the history of ever has ever dragged their ass this fuckin’ slow to get presents.”

Richie puts his bag down on the bed and climbs up to sit opposite Eddie. “You wanna see everyone else’s junk first? This’ll go pretty quick otherwise.”

_ And I am stalling for time here, Eds, work with me. _

“All right,” Eddie snorts. “What’ve you got?”

Richie feels around for the plastic bag with Bev’s shirt and the dumb gift he had initially picked out for Eddie. He folds the rest of the bag closed and tucks it under his thigh for now. “Well you already heard about this little number,” he says, modeling the Little Mermaid shirt against his chest, it’s girl-cut comically short and narrow for his body.

“Very stylish,” says Eddie.

Next, Richie fishes out the other bag with the boxed stuff in it. “Some legos for architect Ben, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And a new Chewbacca action figure for Bill, since I melted his in sixth grade.”

Eddie swipes the shiny black box and examines it. “This is probably an upgrade, actually.”

“I know, I feel like they used to make these things outta crayons. I barely had to _ try _to melt the old one.”

Squinting, Eddie watches him put them back into their bag. “Did you do all your shopping at Disneyworld?”

“_Downtown _ Disney, technically. I was working, I didn’t have the time.” Richie pulls another item from his bag. “And, no! I got Mike a bottle of whiskey!”

“How come Mike gets a big boy gift!?” A fair question.  
  
“He lives in Florida now, man. You give that crap to a Floridian there is no legal recourse if they kill you.”

Eddie has no argument with that. He glances at the bag Richie has tucked under his leg and quirks his eyebrow. “So, what’s this surprise you’ve got your panties in a bunch about?”

Richie swallows hard and offers out the bag. It’s kind of a decoy at this point. He could just give Eddie the fanny pack and not invite him over to his room for the Real Deal. Eddie would think he was nuts, but it would be totally survivable.

“This is pretty neat,” Eddie says, unwrapping the fannypack. It’s got the wallpaper pattern from the Haunted Mansion printed on it in black and purple. “I like it. I could use this in Hawaii.”

“It was the only one I could find that didn’t have mouse ears,” Richie says weakly. _ Now or Never. _ “There’s something... uhm, something else in my room, too. The actual surprise,” he forces himself to say.

Eddie tilts his head, lip curling curiously upward. “Ooo?”

Richie points to the book fair bag. “But you can go first.”

“Merry Christmas,” says Eddie. He smiles so openly, perfect teeth like a goddamned commercial for dental school.

“Whenever did you buy this?” Richie gasps in a dilettante Voice, examining the bag as though he didn’t nearly throttle Eddie for it last night. He slides out a glossy yellow record. _ FLASH GORDON. _All around the title are four black marker scribbles where Queen have signed. “Holy shit.”

“I was at the autographed merch booth and I remembered you, just- _ tormenting _ us.” Eddie mimes a microphone. “-_dundundundun_ Flash! Ahhh!”

“_King of the Impossible,_” Richie finishes. He runs his fingers along the hard edge of the cover. “This is really fucking nice. And expensive. _ Fuck_. I hope they pay risk analysts well.”

“I do all right,” Eddie chuckles. “As long as you like it.”

Richie nods. He’s already picturing it framed and hung over his couch in LA, where he’s blanketed on top of Eddie, showing him his appreciation. He keeps a tight hold of it and slips backwards off of the bed. “Come on. Let me show you-- actually... Let me go first.”

Without another word Richie dashes out of the room, leaving behind his carry on and Eddie, still basking in the satisfaction of a gift well given. He doesn’t remember getting out his keycard to open the door or taking off his blazer, but he must, because suddenly Richie is standing in front of the tv, shaking the remote and racing through the channels to find the marathon again, his unbuttoned shirt cuffs flapping frantically. _ Flash Gordon _ is propped up lovingly atop the dresser, already in a place of honor. A moment later, Eddie comes in.

A step into the room he stops and blinks. “Wow. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t a hammock.”

It’s one of those portable ones, with a freestanding steel pipe frame that can be broken down into a bag and brought camping or put in a yard with no trees. The sling is striped red and yellow, with wooden bars at either end.

Richie crosses his arms self consciously. “Sometimes when I’m, you know. Going Through It, or whatever, I sit in the tub just to feel like I’m... I dunno. Being held? Safe?” He glances up at Eddie for just a second and then back down again at nothing in particular. “And I was thinking how I used to like that old hammock for the same reason and how you were there, too. Liked it just as much as I did. And. I- was a hog.”

A hog. _ Eloquent_, Richie thinks to himself.

Eddie comes closer to check it out, giving him major side eye. “You were the _ worst_.”

“I owe you,” says Richie, waving an arm.

Sitting perpendicular at first, Eddie eases his way in. “Oh that’s nice.”

“Good.” Richie realizes has no idea what to say next. _ Bad_.

“How are we gonna take this on a plane tomorrow?”

Richie huffs. “That’s a strange way to pronounce ‘thank you’.”

Eddie stops swinging, hanging one leg out with his foot on the floor. “Sorry. Thank you, Richie.”

“You’re welcome. Merry fucking Christmas or whatever.” Richie shifts his weight from foot to foot. Maybe he should just go. He’s not sure where. Maybe early check-in at the airport. He can just cool his heels at the terminal for half a day, right?

“Let me make it up to you,” says Eddie, pushing awkwardly to his feet. “The next ten minutes are all yours.”

Richie stares at Eddie blankly as he gets out and motions for him to get in. “I just-”

“Come _ on _ already.”

Slowly, Richie approaches and lowers himself into the hammock. He’s probably frowning but he can’t seem to control his face right now. Or the ferocious game of paddle ball that his heart seems to be playing in his rib cage.

“Great,” Eddie says. He crosses his arms and waits a few seconds, tapping his foot. Then he climbs in, too. Not head to toe like they used to when they were kids, but right alongside him.

“I thought I had ten minutes,” Richie pouts, trying not to look too happy about it as Eddie rests against him.

“You do.” Eddie lays his arm across Richie’s waist. “I’m giving you ten minutes.”

At first Ritchie’s wretched brain thinks _ Ten minutes of pity. He knows and he’s just throwing you a bone so you don’t throw yourself into the fucking Puget Sound. _Then he sees the gentle expression on Eddie’s face. He wouldn’t be so cruel. He wouldn’t feel the way he does about Eddie if he were capable of that.

Eddie is good. Eddie is reliable, and thoughtful, and brave. He gives Richie the opportunity to be all those things, too. When something needs doing, he’s at Richie’s side saying _Either_ y_ou do it or I will. _

It’s time to come clean. His throat is tied like a balloon knot, containing all the things he needs to air.

“Eddie, I’m in love with you. I think I always have been. And I’m... _scared._ I’ve seen what my life is like when you’re not in it and it fucking sucks.” 

The arm at Richie’s waist slips up his body and the same hand that he had failed to take two nights before cups his cheek. “It’s okay,” says Eddie. He slowly leans into Richie, his breath drawing a warm path across his shoulder and up his neck. Richie can taste his aftershave in the air and then he can taste _ him_. Eddie’s lips are on his- the softest, kindest reassurance. “It’s okay,” Eddie repeats, between the first kiss and the second. The next is longer and deeper- long enough that Richie gets control of his arms again and slides them around Eddie’s neck. He can feel the prickle of goosebumps at both their napes, despite how warm and snug the press of their two bodies is.

Eddie pulls back, but only as far as it takes to get them nose to nose. His forehead nuzzles Richie’s.

“Eds-”

“I love you too,” Eddie bursts hurriedly, like he’s trying to flag down a boat before it casts off. “I don’t want to forget to say that. I wanted to- to tell you since Derry, but- you know. And then you pulled away, and-”

This time it’s Richie’s turn. “It’s okay,” he tells Eddie. He mashes him with another hard, purposeful kiss that’s too toothy to actually be good, but gets the point across. “It’s okay. We’re getting there anyway. We’re here now.”

Guess he didn’t need the full ten minutes, but he does need ten _ lifetimes_. He needs to make up for all the wasted years that he didn’t know what was missing. He kisses Eddie like the laundry he would fold for him, neat and tidy, and he kisses him like the wet, sloppy tears that are welling in the corners of his eyes. He claws his fingers into the knit of Eddie’s sweater and pulls him as close as they can get but it’s not enough. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t be allowed to want someone so much- to want them to swallow you whole, heart first, when cannibalism is illegal. Stupid laws. Stupid clowns. Stupid everything that ever kept them from having this.

Eddie tenses and drops his head onto Richie’s shoulder. “Holy fuck, Richie. I feel like I’m gonna faint.”

“Why?” Richie smirks. “You freaked out about something? Something crazy just happen to you?” He pokes Eddie in the sides, rapidfire, like the annoying shit he is. Just incase Eddie thought that was going to change.

“_Yes_,” Eddie hisses. Swinging the hammock perilously, he wrestles to grab Richie’s hands so he’ll stop poking, which only serves to get Richie more worked up and handsy. Richie can feel how hard he is, bearing down on him. “My best friend and I just cashed in on thirty motherfucking years of romantic tension-“

“Aww,” Richie coos. “Is he nice?”

“He’s a _ fuckhead_.” Eddie finally catches his wrists and kisses him, then again with a stinging bite.

“Ow!”

“Not sorry,” Eddie growls, nipping at his ear, too. The jolt it sends through Richie almost flips the hammock.

“Shit, ok! Ow! Hey!” He clambers to get a stabilizing leg out of the sling. “We either need to call room service and get you fed, or get out of this thing and fuck- preferrably _ before _one of us actually does break an arm.”

One of Eddie’s hands shoves into the waist of his jeans.

“I think-” Richie gasps, “I know how you’re voting.”

The same way Richie had made it from the hall to infront of his tv by apparent teleportation, somehow he finds himself kneeling at the edge of the bed, peeling off Eddie’s jeans. While he hops on one foot trying to kick off his own, Eddie pushes aside a pillow to reveal something red hidden in the messy blankets. His sweatshirt.

“What? It smells good.”

“You perv.” Eddie shakes his head. His dark eyes flash in the flicker of the muted tv screen. Green, then silver, then gold. “Were you even cold?”

“Yeah! Fuck you!”

Richie takes off his shirt and tackles Eddie, because he’s shivering again and he needs what Eddie always gives him. _ Now_. He’s like a lightning rod that Richie can direct all his crackling energy into. He glows in the dark for Richie when everything else is a blinding storm. His hands cover the jagged scars on Eddie’s body, replacing old, fearful memories with fresh, beautiful ones. The strain of muscle as he hauls the man he loves across the bed, and the too-hot sticky slide when they couldn’t possibly be any closer. This is nervous and new, but they’re already so good at the give and take between them out of bed, they can’t help but fumble in the right direction.

“Talk to me,” Richie begs. “Eddie, tell me it's okay.”

It’s hard for Eddie to break the magnetic attraction his mouth has formed to Richie’s long enough to answer. “It’s not fucking_ okay._” He touches Richie in a way that makes him shudder. “It’s fucking _ fantastic_.”

Gentlemanliness be damned, Richie does not offer to get a washcloth afterward. He rolls onto his belly and fishes over the edge of the bed for his phone.

“Uhh, wet spot much?” Eddie smacks his ass.

“Who cares? We’re checking out in like, eight hours, and you’ve got a whole ‘nother bed next door.” Richie opens the camera on his phone and quickly snaps a compromising photo. He snickers; somewhere in LA, his manager's latte is curdling.

Eddie uses the sheets to clean himself, miserably. “I’m still going to shower,” he frowns.

“I’m counting on it. Then you won’t be able to stop me sending this to the group chat.”

The bed bounces as Eddie lunges to take Richie’s phone. He lays on top of his back like a log. “That’s actually-“ Eddie clears his throat.

“Kinda hot?” Richie smirks.

“Send me that. But take another one. That I will approve for sharing.”

Eddie lets Richie free and he rolls over in a tangle of limbs. He puckers up and kisses Eddie’s cheek, camera arm stretched above for maximum cliché. There's no mistaking their flushed faces, bare chests and abused bedding.

“There. Happy?” Richie snuggles into Eddie while he takes Richie’s phone to make a tasteful crop.

“Very. Mariah Carey, eat your heart out.” Eddie’s fingers scratch through his sweaty hair. It’s gross and Richie’s sure that he stinks and he loves Eddie madly for not saying so.

When he gets back his phone, Richie looks up the hotel’s website. “Let’s order dinner. Gonna need to tank up if you wanna ride Tozier Airlines again before Maui.”

“Are you going to try and have your way with me on the plane?” Eddie asks, fingers going still in a moment of rapt anticipation.

“I love you too fucking much to let you blow me in a toilet, Eds.”

Eddie kisses his temple with a sigh. “That’s so romantic.”

-

**RT **IMG_8282.jpg

**RT ** _ It’s a Christmas miracle! _

**BM ** _ Daaaamn Kaspbrak! _

**MH** _Bill, everyone is pairing off!_

**BD** _Mike, I love you and all but you'll have to try harder than that_

**BH** _I thought they were already a thing? I booked them a suite on the cruise..._

**Author's Note:**

> I have some art for this on my tumblr @stitchyarts ! Check out The second part of the series for an Eddie POV of the bar sidequel ;)


End file.
